


Amaranthine

by novamare



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, and dead will, it ended up as a somewhat morbid ode to ancient greek myth and the beauty of nature, mostly it's pining hannibal, not sure if this even counts as angst, tbh now I want to write an afterlife au??, this is definitely procrastination from writing my fic for mhbb, this started as a challenge to write a romance in 300 words, vague and torturous are my middle names, you get to decide how hannibal killed him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 20:54:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15781926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novamare/pseuds/novamare
Summary: Even psychiatrists struggle to cope with death.





	Amaranthine

At first it is within the infinite center of a lush rose, where bloody petals curl in on themselves, that Will’s face appears. The rose is one of many in a bouquet sold from a sidewalk florist. Still burdened by black suits and phantom embraces, Hannibal cannot help himself.

Then within dusky rhododendron blossoms, carnations and weeping orchids. He is everywhere Hannibal looks. With each floral perfume comes the hidden thorns buried deep in Hannibal’s sides. Ephemeral contortions of nature bend into the ridges and valleys of Will’s face, until perhaps nature takes over, and Hannibal’s intimate memory fades.

Nearly a hundred passing seasons separate Hannibal’s gnarled and arthritic hands from Will’s eternal youth. Each fleeting moment tears a petal away, and as it floats off on echoes of childish daisy games, Hannibal finds himself left bare and _effeuillait à la folie_. Dried and crumbling flowers fill his home, painting the walls and floors and furniture with the reds and purples of Will’s blood and beauty. Nights are lost in lamenting.

Around the small stone symbolizing all that remains of Will’s earthly body, a small Eden rises from the rich soil. Wildflowers in every shade of devotion, grief and remorse, tended by gnarled and arthritic hands that ache from thorny scratches and holding too tight to wilting nostalgia.

Soon every meal tastes of rosewater and bitter sage. Every bruised bloom seems to hold within it Will’s image or spirit. Every moment a vined tangle of past and present. Every breath an elysian curse. 

At last among the poppy fields, Hannibal sees himself in the vast expanse of creation, returned to his own youth with arms wound like roots around his amaranthine Will. Sweet blood blossoms from where their bodies intertwine, and where it seeps into the earth, wildflowers spring eternal.


End file.
